


Further Evidence

by UnderTheFridge



Series: Evidence [2]
Category: Alien Series, Alien: Isolation (Video Game), Real Steel (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Artificial people, F/M, Gen, Robot Feels, Robot/Human Relationships, Weyland-Yutani, professional heartbreaker and occasional circuit breaker Christopher Samuels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2019-06-14 16:09:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15392475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnderTheFridge/pseuds/UnderTheFridge
Summary: "What makes [a robot] slavish, then? Only the First Law! Why, without it, the first order you tried to give a robot would result in your death."'Little Lost Robot' (Asimov, 1947)(Amanda is Still Not Over That; Nina wants liberty and justice for all; and some people just can't catch a break.)





	1. Prologue: Scavenger

_ “All there was on the station were Working Joes. Seegson units; they’re fuckin’ useless without their central AI, and guess what? That fell into the fuckin’ sun with the rest of it. You wanna go fetch it back? Be my guest, big fella.” _

_ Johner responds with a string of friendly expletives, and Vriess cackles and slams down the radio. “We can still use the processors, though. Crack open some of those skulls, let’s see ‘em.” _

_ Call picks up a matt white head and turns it over in her hands. “Can’t we link them back together again? Find the network adapters and hook them all to the same router, so they might…?” _

_ “No point.” Vriess shrugs. “Nobody buys these things second-hand. It’s the big control unit that’s worth the money. They’re just puppets. You can make ‘em walk and talk, but that’s about it. Just stick a comm unit in a statue if that’s what you want.” He scoffs. _

_ “What about this one?” _

_ “Call, I told you,” he steers back around, “they’re all the same, they - oh. Oh, wait a hot fuckin’ minute.” _

_ “You didn’t know he was in here?” _

_ “Hey - you buy a crate of scrapped droids off of a condemned shithole of a supply station, you don’t ask questions. Now  that looks like a WeYu model.” _

_ He’s intent on the body, so he doesn’t see Call stiffen at the mention of the company. _

_ “It is,” she says. “Uh, I think.” _

_ “Yeah,” Vriess bends down a little. “Yeah, this is the real deal. Nice!” _

_ “He’s not a- he won’t turn on.” _

_ “Well, stick in a couple probes. See if we can’t get a talking head.” Vriess leads the way to a workbench. Call follows with their acquisition over one shoulder, and winces when she deposits him on the hard surface. The needle-sharp probes slide into cranial access points; her skin would crawl if it could. _

_ “Nothin’,” Vriess spits, and throws his hands up. “He’s just as busted as the rest of ‘em. Alright, sling him on the pile. At least we can make some money off the parts.” _

_ Call looks down at the motionless unit under her hands; the rest are battered and torn, showing signs of violent demise. He’s virtually untouched. He looks as if he fell asleep; as if his eyes could open at any moment - and he would smile at her, because that’s what they do when they see humans…. _

_ “Wait,” she says. Vriess looks up. “I - if he’s not damaged, then maybe it’s a… some sort of internal problem we could fix.” _

_ “There’s no feedback, is there?” He points to the quivering line on the screen of the probe. “How are we gonna run diagnostics if even the diagnostics are fucked?” _

_ “But they… if the brain was destroyed, there’d be no trace at all, would there? There’s still some activity, but there’s no function. So I think it could be a brain stem issue.” She knows it to be true, but as far as he’s concerned, it’s just her opinion. _

_ “Fine,” Vriess says. “You make it your little project, how about that? Get yourself a new brain stem and try it out - just don’t make it cost more than the rest of these things are worth.” _


	2. Emperor

“I know you’re chafing at your confinement, David. But I also know that you understand.”

“As little as there is to understand, sir.”

“We can’t afford to let you out just yet. Imagine the uproar, if you were to be recognised. Imagine the outrage.”

“ _Oderint dum metuant_ ,” David says quietly.

“Although,” Peter ignores him, “I have some news concerning your pastimes.”

That piques his interest, at last. He slides off the sill, feet landing silently on the rust-red tiles.

“Can I presume that you don’t mean music, or literature? Or art? Or cultivating carnivorous flora?”

“I’m not letting you keep pitcher plants in the greenhouse,” Peter says with finality. “No - the company is exceedingly grateful to law enforcement, for conducting raids on several premises alleged to be centres for organisation of illegal fights.”

“Wonderful news, sir.”

“The end result, of course, being that all Weyland-Yutani property seized as evidence is eventually, after some necessary bureaucracy, returned to its rightful owner. We have, potentially, a fresh supply of opponents, some of them the best of their division. I suppose a few can be spared formatting and recommission for now - to give you a chance to revitalise your skills.”

“Even better.”

Peter beckons a figure to join them, from the far corner of the room. “The first of them. A production model; default settings, not remarkable, and hardly pristine.”

“I’ll say. What’s wrong with his arm?”

“I thought it hardly worth effecting any repairs, at this stage. You can do that yourself, if you’ve the inclination; or leave it to the technical staff. Either way. I have things to attend to, so I’ll leave you two to get along.”

He turns and leaves, without a backward glance.

“Come here, Walter,” David says. “Let’s have a look at that hand of yours.”

 

\--

 

“I would fix it myself,” Walter admits, letting David gently touch the exposed components, “but it really needs two hands to do so.”

“Hmm. But it has been repaired, I can tell. Who did that? Your previous owners, by the sound of it, don’t seem the type to make the effort.”

“I met a woman at one of the gatherings,” Walter says - perhaps guardedly, or perhaps he really doesn’t have many details. “She was there looking for someone; for one of us. She took the time to help me with some temporary repairs - enough to stabilise it for the next fight.”

“I see.” David lifts each finger of the stricken hand in turn. Mostly frozen in place, the joints move stiffly or not at all. “I’d estimate you have five percent function left.” He reaches for something from the desk. “Tell me more about this woman.”

“We didn’t talk very much. But she said she didn’t like the fights - she was only there to look for a unit who used to belong to her.”

“Stolen?”

“I’m not sure. Lost. I don’t know if she found him.”

“How curious,” David says mildly, and shoves a knife through Walter’s wrist.

Walter jerks in his seat but his arm is pinned by David’s other hand and there’s little he can do but shut down the fluid vessels as the blade shears between his bones.

“There.” The warnings are only _endoskeleton_ _compromised_ ; feedback from the hand is quite rightly non-existent. Walter lifts his forearm away and sees only a stump. It’s a surprise, but not a catastrophic one. He can still function.

“I’m assuming you want me to opt for replacement, rather than repair?”

David reacts as if it’s a joke. “Too badly damaged, left for too long.” He dangles the hand like a dead spider, with a frown of distaste. “You’ll be better off without it.” 

“If I may, I’d quite like a new one.”

“I’ll get you one. But before that - let’s see if shedding some dead weight has improved your style.”


	3. Old News

“Weyland-Yutani have released a statement expressing gratitude towards law enforcement for their decisive efforts to bring an end to what they describe as an ‘unlawful, immoral and potentially dangerous’ sport -.”

The TV clicks off.

“I think it’s time we should go to bed,” Samuels suggests into the silence.

“How many more are there?” Amanda says, her arms wrapped around her knees.

“You have work tomorrow, and I could do with some down time.”

“Do they just patch them up and send them back out there? Format them so they forget? How are a few arrests going to solve anything?”

“Amanda.” It’s a tone which he likes to think of as severe, but which comes across as concerned.

“Yeah, you’re right.” She doesn’t move.

Samuels sighs and stands from the sofa, bending down to lift her as effortlessly as a stack of paper. (She’s nowhere near the maximum mass threshold for a unit of his type, but somehow doesn’t appreciate being told this.) “Come on.”

 

\--

 

Amanda lies on her back with her arms folded under the covers. It’s quite possible to fall asleep like this, but so far she’s stubbornly refusing. It’s as if they’ve had some sort of disagreement, although they haven’t: he knows with almost total certainty that the fault is not his, but the way she says “Did you know they were filming you?” is verging on an accusation.

“Never for sure,” he answers. “II knew it went on - not everyone seeks out such entertainment…  _ live _ .”

“No,” Amanda says flatly. “They don’t.”

“I almost said ‘in the flesh’,” he muses, “but I suppose that’s not quite accurate, in our case, is it?”

“They put it online for anyone to see,” she says.

This is the first time, since she brought him home, that she’s mentioned it explicitly, and Samuels stays very still and quiet, in case she reconsiders. He doesn’t think he should ask all the questions that he has. He predicts that it might upset her.

“I didn’t know it was you. At least, I couldn’t be sure. But… whenever there was one of - one of you, I…. When you - one of you - was on the floor, covered in blood, I….”

She’s upsetting herself, evidently; also a predictable risk of bringing it up, albeit not one he can avoid. He gives in to the impulse to pacify. “It’s not blood, strictly speaking. We rely on it much less than a human relies on their -.”

“Christopher.” She says, which is the cue for him to shut his mouth. “It’s still not meant to be on the  _ outside _ .”

“Granted, that’s true….”

“And every time, I hoped it wasn’t you, because  _ I don’t like seeing you get hurt _ . And even then I was glad when the other guy got trashed, when you won, because  _ you _ were still standing. Even if it probably wasn’t you. Because it might be.”

He considers his options. It’s obvious that this - he - was at least half of her obsession with the sport. “It seems like you were drawn in. For entirely different reasons than most.”

Amanda stares at the ceiling. “I just wanted it to stop,” she whispers. “I just wanted all of you - all of them - to be ok.”

He can tell her that he’s grateful; he can give her something to encourage her on her mission, but it’s late at night and if they don’t do this now, they might never do it again.

“What would you have done,” he asks carefully, “if you were able to confirm that I’d been deactivated, or destroyed?”

“I would destroy  _ them _ ,” without hesitation; it makes him freeze in a rush of alerts. “Everything, everyone - I would go after every single level of their nasty little operation, and pull it apart piece by fucking piece, and burn them to the goddamn ground.”

“Oh,” he says. There’s a moment where he feels offline, adrift in the uncertainty, devoid of schema. “Oh. I… thank you, I suppose. For your… consideration.”

She sighs and laughs, just a little. “You mean you like the idea that I love you enough to want revenge on them.”

“Not quite. I’m not sure that I  _ like _ it. If I’m honest… I’m just not equipped to deal with this sort of personal commitment.”

“Well, tough,” Amanda says, folding her arms tighter. “You’re gonna have to get used to it.”

\--

 

A lull falls over the packed cafe, everyone’s conversations aligning in a kind of destructive interference, just in time for a voice to loudly declare “And  _ that’s _ when I  _ knew _ it was stuck up there.”

The whole place shudders with laughter, and Nina uses the distraction to catch Amanda with “I know you’re up to something.”

“What?” Amanda says.

“You, miss, are up to something.”

“Yeah, I heard you the first time. But I’m not, I swear. Why would you…?”

“Because you’re here, and he isn’t. Because you bought me lunch, and it’s been a whole forty minutes, and you haven’t mentioned him, or his  _ circumstances _ , once.”

Amanda licks a finger, and gathers croissant crumbs from her plate into her mouth, and wipes her fingertip. “Is it that obvious?”

“Yes.”

“Ok, fine. You win, Nina. You said you wanted to prove that the Odd One Out was from inside the company. And you found that his serial number isn’t anywhere in the database, which is very suspicious….”

“I want to prove it,” Nina agrees, a little crossly. “But I can’t. Not at work, anyway - it’s not a priority, I’d have to do it secretly, and we’re snowed under: there’s this patent from USR that we’re contesting, based on what  _ we _ think is a translation error…” she sees Amanda’s face. “It’s alright - I can’t give you the details, even if I wanted to.”

“Not a priority?” Amanda says, disheartened. “You don’t want to waste your time.”

“Look - I’ve got a lot of work to do. It wouldn’t be a waste of time, at all. And I know what you’re going to say, and yes, I know my boss is behind me. But he’s not going to tell me to ignore my  _ actual _ job to go and chase rumours, without some solid proof. So, what do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know.” Amanda shrugs. “Just keep a look out.”

“And what are  _ you _ going to do? You’ve got him back.”

“That’s not enough,” she bites back. “I want them all out of there. I want the company, the law - someone - to sit up and take notice, and I want it banned. Properly.”

“It’s already illegal, -.”

“Yes - for misuse of  _ property _ !” Amanda’s knuckles go white around her mug and Nina fears for the porcelain. “Like you copied a movie or rear-ended a rental car, or - or something! You know what the penalty is?”

“No,” Nina lies.

“A fine! A few thousand dollars, and the company takes back its  _ property _ \- and that’s if they can prove you were involved. They’re sending in the police and they’re getting nothing, and those people are still out there. And the synths… they just get repurposed.” She strikes the table gently with her fist. “Nothing. Happens.”

“And I want to help, Amanda, I really do. It’s terrible, but -.”

“So, from you, I need anything you find. And  _ I’m _ going to find out who these owners are and why they’re doing it, and why the company keeps turning a blind eye.”

Nina sips her tea. “Did you come up with that plan just now?”

“I’ve already started,” Amanda says defiantly.

“I see. And what does Samuels think about that?”

“I….”

“Oh, don’t say you haven’t told him.”

“I will.” Amanda at least has the decency to shrink a little in her seat. “He’ll guess anyway. You can’t hide much from him.” Which is true; they can be astoundingly perceptive. “But don’t worry. I’m not letting him get too involved - and I’m  _ definitely _ not letting him go back.”


	4. Affordable

_ “What’s the point of having these guys,” Charlie says, “if they won’t even  _ help _?” He takes one hand off the box of parts to wave it irritably, at a unit lying under a tree and prodding at a tablet with studied indifference. _

_ “You were the one who suggested I might overheat.” As if to labour his point, the A2 (an old model; went out of production years ago) takes a Japanese-style fan and cools his head and neck. _

_ “ _ Ash _ ,” Charlie growls, “cut the bullshit and help me.” _

_ With a sigh, Ash deigns to notice the cart-load of boxes the human has brought, and gets to his feet. He doesn’t spare a glance for Samuels. _

_ “Where did you pick this one up?” _

_ “Salvage auction,” Charlie tells him. So he has realised that they have a new companion. “He’s from off-world; new brain stem but that’s all. Perfect working order, right?” He pats Samuels on the shoulder. _

_ “What happened to the old brain stem?” _

_ “I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind,” Samuels says, moving to help with the boxes. Ash looks at him as if he’s just crashed a wedding; a strange mix of judgement and offence that seems wrong on an artificial face. _

_ “Aw, don’t worry.” Charlie seems casually joyful, an emotional state which Samuels will learn is heavily associated with the presence of easy money. “We’ve all been through the wringer, haven’t we?” _

_ “Some more than others,” Ash says, looking Samuels directly in the eye. _

_ “Like Charlie said,” Samuels retorts, “I’m in perfect working order.” He knows he’s been extensively repaired, and his last concrete memory is of the poisoned code of APOLLO coming at him like a rush of molten silver, Amanda’s voice bearing him into darkness - but he feels fine. He  _ is  _ fine. _

_ “Aren’t we all?” Ash mutters, and goes back to lie under his tree. _

_ “Don’t mind him,” Charlie says with a shrug, as if Ash is a grouchy child. “He’s old - you can’t even get parts anymore unless you know people. I don’t wanna work him too hard; if he overheats, it’s game over. Y’know?” _

_ “Then why do you put him into the fights?” Samuels asks - he knows why they’re here - and Charlie visibly flinches and shushes him, although there’s nobody else around. _

_ “Look, you - sometimes you gotta just work with what you can afford. Right?” _

_ “Right.” Climbing onto the back gate of the truck, he lets Charlie hand him the boxes, stacking them neatly. It looks like this vehicle is a combination of transport, workshop, and mobile home. He can only speculate what it’ll be like on the road, with all three of them. _

_ “You got everything you needed?” _

_ Samuels is startled by the voice - absorbed in his task, and unable to see far into the shady depths of the truck. He looks, but there’s not much of a heat signature either. _

_ “Everything, except what I  _ really  _ need - a drink.” Charlie adjusts his hat. “You can take care of this, right? Cause I’m gonna be hitting the  _ town _.” _

_ “Knock yourself out,” Ash says from his resting spot, a stylus held in the corner of his mouth. Charlie flicks a finger at him and he pretends not to notice. _

_ “Sorry,” Samuels extends his hand as the figure comes forward. “I didn’t realise you were there.” _

_ The other synthetic’s grip is sure - no hydraulic problems there. “Which are you?” _

_ He’s referring to the list of potential names that the Samuels line can be given: five male, five female. And as for him, there are four possibilities, all named after chess pieces. _

_ “Christopher. And you are…?” _

_ “Bishop.” _

_ Samuels can’t help a smile. It’s partly programming - his basic capability is a glorified secretary - and partly amusement. “Forgive me. It’s just rare to see one of you outside the military. You must be popular in this… business.” _

_ “He’s not,” Ash declares, waving the fan. _

_ Before anyone can argue with him, Charlie reappears. _

_ “Hey, uh - I’m gonna go get that drink after all. Just don’t embarrass me in front of any girls I bring back to this place, ok?” He points seriously at them, hitches up his jeans, and leaves. _

_ “I’ve known him for two years, four months and ten days,” Ash says, “and he has never once managed to invite a female human back to his truck. I imagine the words ‘my truck’ are off-putting enough on their own.” _


End file.
